Curtains Close on a Kiss
by At A Venture
Summary: Revised. Hell is only an illusion.
1. Chapter 1

_Please Note: This is a revised edition of the story. Some details have been changed. Any reviews have been deleted when the old chapters were deleted. Chapter 3 is completely new. I hope everyone enjoys the revised version!_

Chapter 1

* * *

It was a struggle to open his eyes, to reclaim a grip on whatever dismal reality he had happened upon. Pain, physical and mental, crept over his awareness, sneaking out like hands grasping his muscles and organs, sucking eternal life from his wounds. Throbbing blood tore at his brain, tearing at the sickly grey lobes, cutting them apart with a hot, serrated knife. It was possible that only a demon could experience so much pain and go on living, if you could call it living. Certainly no mortal body would go on feeling as he felt. 

Cold seeped from cracks in the cement ceiling, leaked down the unfurnished walls, pooled on the unstable, broken floor. The floor, how frozen it was. In some distant recollection of time spent in the bowels of Hell, the floor had never seemed quite so rigidly, horribly cold. It was difficult to think, difficult to sort out dream and reality. The bare scraps of clothing covering his pale, clammy skin offered no protection, no matter how he adjusted his upper body against the concrete. So consumed as he was by the jarring, seeping frigid floor, it took several moments to notice the scent of a living thing mere feet from him, and the swirling gasp of vapor that rose from her nostrils.

The darkness was complete and total, so utterly black that it was near impossible to peer through, even for a creature born of the night. Stretching his fingers reluctantly across the cracked and porous cement, he felt his way toward her. Bones cracked and popped angrily; he pushed his knees against the floor and crawled. Blood oozed from seeping wounds in his belly, leaving a rust-scented trail.

Her skin was prickled and cold, clammy beneath his tender, exploratory fingers. A large, stiff hand slid up over her arm, examining the solid tumor-like bruises, the deep and wet cuts in her bicep, and the slivers of bone that punctured her flesh. With a palm resting lightly on her cheek, he turned her face toward his eyes. Blood-caked blond hair framed her face; a few pieces of hair stuck to her chapped lower lip. The woman exhaled and another cloud of vapor streamed through the sweaty atmosphere.

The hand dropped pathetically, uselessly, from her face. It bounced on the concrete, a dead fish. A struggling sigh wobbled up from within his throat but emerged without a sound. Perched on his knees, Angel sat back, leaning his weight on his ankles. Slowly, he turned his head, leaning his chin briefly on the tip of his shoulder, allowing it to dip into a weeping pool of pus and sticky mucus. His chapped lips screwed up into a scowl and his head snapped back, whirling around one hundred-eighty degrees to the other half of the room. The walls reared up out of the darkness, offering a vague focal point, a boundary, an enclosure. Otherwise, the room offered nothing, no hint of an explanation, no where or why or how or when. Confusion fell upon his shoulders, the globe at Atlas' back.

The wall lurched toward him as Angel stretched out his hands, zombie-like, in front of his torso. Equally cold, damp in some places, slick and sticky in others, the wall gave him something with which to gauge the room. His bare feet shuffled across the floor, barely lifting from the brittle mixture of ash and water, shattered or cracked in places. Several times, his shoe would catch on some object and attempt to tear him from the goal. Somewhere, somewhere in this crypt, there had to be a source of light. If he kept searching, he was certain to find it.

Struggling to cross the empty wall, devoid of nails, decorations, a single object that might lead him to a clue, Angel made his way through the room. Every few seconds, his head would toss back in the direction of the small cloud of vapor, watching with abdomen pulled tight until the cloud swirled into the air and dissipated. It was the single sign of life in such a barren environment.

Shock caught him in his progress as a hand seemed to snake up his leg and pull him savagely toward the floor. Again, sound failed to protrude from his lips and down he fell, crashing to the frozen cement with a deaf smack. Legs above his torso, bent back painfully toward the sky, skull bleeding from a crack at the temple, Angel choked and exhaled a meaningless sigh. Pressing his palms against the floor, he struggled back up to his knees, kicking out at the blackness, feeling for whatever had dragged him down to the floor. There was a loud crack of indistinguishable origin as it slammed up against a harder surface. Had he really felt a hand? Or was it something far less sinister, a blockade in the dark.

Without a definite answer, he spit a mixture of saliva and blood onto the floor and fought his way back to his feet, hands slapping the wall without much of a response. Grunting with frustration, he resumed the trek along the edge of the room. His brain danced with questions as his sweaty palms streaked the wall, searching for an answer, any answer. What was this place, and how had he ended up here? What day was it and how long had he been asleep? It couldn't have been long for his wounds were still fresh, still bleeding and damp. He had been dead, really dead, and this was not that place, not that dimension.

At last, his fingers fell upon a plastic switch embedded in the wall. There was no plate, only an empty hole where the concrete had been drilled away. Quickly, his head turned, back into the open room, back to the small cloud of breath that rose from the cracked lips of a small blond woman, a vampire Slayer. His still heart rose into his throat until at last she exhaled. His thumb flicked against the switch and yellow light resonated suddenly from every dark corner. A fierce shudder jumped excitedly up the vampire's spine. Screams of horror filled every ounce of his soul, but his mouth remained silent. The jaw had dropped, and the tongue hung slack and lifeless over his pale lower lip.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

Jaundiced light spilled across the room from a bald bulb hanging from the ceiling. It swung helplessly on the end of a crop of multi-colored wires, as though the force of turning it on had set it into a pendulum motion. Shadows stuck to the farthest corners, drenching them in a grayish tone. With the room illuminated so brightly from such complete darkness, Angel had to blink several times. A slight stream of moisture trickled from the edge of each eyelid, condensation on a cold glass.

There was a single door near the corner farthest from the empty section of floor on which he'd awakened. Bloody fingerprints tarnished the brass doorknob, though it was hard to say whether that hand had locked them in, or was attempting escape. The lower half of each wall was coated with blood-handprints, streaks, and even a bit of random splatter. Still, it was what lay across the floor that prickled his skin and stole his voice.

It seemed as though they'd been thrown in, one after another, like corpses from a genocidal slaughter. Many were slack-jawed and wide eyed; continuing to excrete blood long after rigor mortis had set in. Some had broken arms or broken legs that wobbled in the thick, stagnant air like flags in a breeze. One hundred or more of them, littering the ground like old scraps at the dump. A half-formed thought swayed between his ears. Had they died here? Or were they already dead on arrival?

Groaning in horror, Angel lurched back to the sticky section of floor, to the young blond he'd discovered near his side. She was as torn up as the rest of them, broken limbs, cuts and bruises, blood still wet on her face, on her throat. In the bold light, she appeared washed out, running headlong toward death while sitting perfectly still. Leaning over her, he listened to the ragged breath fighting its way in through her nostrils and out through her mouth.

Behind him, the doorknob rustled. Something scratched at the door, as though trying to pull it off the hinges with only one's fingernails. _Or possibly claws_, he thought as he darted his gaze from the young woman to the far corner of the room. His hands flew suddenly over the girl, and the door banged open, creaking on the hinges and slamming against the backside of the wall. Darkness loomed up from the doorway, but for several beats of the slayer's heart, nothing revealed itself in the entry.

"Show your self," Angel murmured, clutching the girl but facing the empty exit. Behind him, she stirred in her sleep.

"Who's there?" replied a voice, deeply pitched but feminine. Angel strained to listen, and heard at last the shuffling of bare feet on the dense cement floor. A face peered slowly around the jam, blinking at the brightness of the room from the dark chasm of the hall beyond. "…Angel?"

"Faith?" Angel gasped in reply, taking in the sight of a hearty, muscular woman with dark hair draping her gruff but attractive face. A deep cut scored her features, slicing from beneath the lower lip in a diagonal strike up over the eyebrow. Coagulated blood formed beads at the seam of the cut.

"How the hell are you?"

With effort and a little wincing between his eyes, Angel shed the old black duster from his shoulders and wrapped it carefully around the damaged slayer before scooping her into his arms. She stirred once again, opened her eyes briefly, and looked down at the floor, littered with the corpses of young women. Vomit gurgled in her throat, spilling from the sides of her mouth before she swallowed it back down. A heavy sigh rushed from her nostrils, and the door slammed loudly behind them.

"Do you know where we are?" Angel pressed his tight, strained shoulders against a new concrete wall. The sensation of cold, bare cement seemed almost life-giving. Ahead of him, Faith pressed her hands against the wall, searching for an exit in the pitch blackness.

"I woke up in a room, floor to ceiling full of bodies. Slayers, Potentials... I checked them, all of them, but they were dead, dying, couldn't be helped."

"So, no, then?" gasped a smaller voice, feminine, short of breath.

"Buffy," Angel cracked a relieved smile. He slid down along the wall to one knee, and set her carefully on the floor. "How do you feel?"

"Like death."

"Feelin's mutual, B." Faith paused, crossed her arms over her chest, and displayed a look of tense exasperation in the darkness. "Look, not to break up your little lovey dovey get together, but we gotta move. Gut's tellin' me we ain't supposed to be alive down here."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Angel muttered as he joined Faith in feeling along the walls. Faith had pulled out ahead, at least fifteen feet in front of the pair. Buffy limped alongside him, holding the coat's lapel with one hand and tracing the wall with the other.

"Darkness. I could hear someone moaning, or maybe screaming? It was so beyond dark that I wasn't sure where it was coming from. It could have been me, for all I know."

"Hey! I think I've found something!" Faith called from up ahead.

"Be careful, Faith! You never know what's behind door number…" Buffy cut off as the door swung open and light, once again, flooded the empty hall. "Three."

Though it seemed impossible, there were yet more bodies. Crumpled in horror, as though they'd been yanked out of some sort of frozen Hell dimension, the corpses of young vampire slayers littered the floor. There were chairs in this room, and the walls were painted a sickly green. A shudder coursed through the trio as they scanned the inhuman remains of a parcel of sixteen year old girls.

Beneath the swaying lamp, kneeling amongst a circle of angular limbs and faces frozen in terror, a slightly framed gentleman sat with his hands covering his face. He was nude to the waist, a pair of dusty leather trousers sagging around his slim hips. In the hazy white light, his pale skin appeared almost translucent, as though one could see right in to his non-functional organs, his un-beating heart. Like the others, he'd sustained a plethora of personal damage. Splintered bone poked from his chest and blood dripped pathetically from a puncture at the neck. No normal human would have survived, but Spike had not been human for hundreds of years.

Buffy limped through the doorway, choking again on the taste of vomit as she spied the deceased Potentials, once in her charge. She lingered uselessly in front of the bleach-blonde vampire, tugging the coat around her like a shield. From somewhere deep inside her soul, tears welled. Upon her approach, Spike moved his hands from his face. His palms, cheeks, forehead, and chin were drenched in thick red blood. Horror magnified his dark pupils, lifted his eyebrows high up upon his forehead, and sank his jaw, as though he'd lost the lower half of it in a nasty brawl with the dentist.

Anger swelled his voice, dry though it might have been. Spike watched anxiously as Angel appeared next from the magical blackness of the entrance and slid in behind Buffy, his arms moving heavily around her shoulders. The slayer did not shrug him off, but continued to look down at Spike with pity and sadness, her dry eyes glazing over with dewy tears. Behind them, Faith hovered, her head drifting out of the dark, but the remainder of her body staying hidden away. A scream played on Spike's tongue as the taste of blood intensified his appetite. His face gave way, revealing the growling demon hidden beneath the surface. With eyes glowing yellow, and fanged teeth gnashing, he confronted the trio of survivors.

"What the FUCK is going on here?!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

_"Live this day like it's your last."_

The distinct smell of memories swept through his nostrils as Angel thrust himself through the aging, rattling door of the Hyperion. Light streamed in around his cloaked and covered body, bouncing from the swirling patterns of dust that danced through the lobby, and retreating back through the open entryway. With a kick of his foot, Angel slammed the door shut, blocking out the infernal sun. Sighing, the old vampire discarded the thick, black blanket he used as a shield. Memories, this old place smelled like; memories and dreams long since forgotten.

Dust coated the check-in counter, the smooth and sensuous lines of late Art Nouveau peeking out from the grime, shining and beautiful despite the onset of decay. On the marble surface, old case files crammed into manila folders had been left to rot, unremarkable events in the face of apocalypse. Beneath the carefully hand-labeled files sat old volumes, demonologies, genealogies, prophecies foretold and averted. Somewhere in this scrap heap, the dreams of Angel Investigations were buried, decrepit. Somewhere in this pile of junk, they'd lost the mission. Its time was well overdue.

An old oak chair creaked, squeaked, faltered, but held up to the adjusting weight of an aging immortal. A new spiral of choking dust took flight from the top of his old desk, spreading fingers across the office, clinging to the piles of books on every available surface. Had this office ever been tidy? Had it always looked this…lived in? Even his ledger, sitting at an awkward angle on the old desk, was covered in stray notes, illegible handwriting, and random sketches of the women he'd loved and lost.

Beneath another decaying relic of the old investigative team, the phone rang. Angel pushed aside the folder, not bothering to watch as it sailed to the floor, spreading dirt and soiled papers across the green Berber carpet. In the dust that covered the receiver, Angel's hands left distinct fingerprints. A smile betrayed his straight-forward gaze. It seemed appropriate that he'd sit here at the old desk, awaiting the first call Angel Investigations had received in a year, and the last call it would ever take.

"Angel Investigations, we help the helpless." He chimed, grinning. In his mind, he imagined Cordelia answering the phone, her voice high and excited, her fingers rummaging through the desk drawer for a new folder and a specially-designed Invoice sheet.

"It might actually work," Buffy Summers replied on the other end of the line. It was as though she were right there in front of him, her sixteen-year-old eyes lifted toward his face, hope brightening the tender green irises. In his mind, she'd always be that girl, so full of wonder, of hope, of spunk. He'd never think of her as the young woman aged by death, by fear, and by the empty hollow despair that defeated her in her later years.

"Either way, it's all going to change." He got up from his chair, tucked the receiver between his shoulder and temple, and retrieved the base from his desk. It left a clean impression on the surface. "A world without magic or a world without the human race; it'll be different."

"The coven is preparing the last of the ingredients. Giles is actually giddy. It's really… The end is really here."

"You're looking forward to it."

"Aren't you?"

"I've seen a lot of ends of the world, Buffy."

"I've been fighting for too long, Angel. This could be the end. Either way, it will be." Her voice dropped, and though he could not see her, he knew that she'd slouched, dropped her eyes toward the ground. Guilt washed over her soul, and she imagined her own death, what it had been like, what it could be like a third time.

"Either way, you're free."

"Yeah,"

Silence passed between them. What more was there to say, with death lingering as it did between them? Angel listened as the slayer exhaled on the other end of the line. Beyond her soft breathing, he could hear the voices of Willow Rosenberg, Xander Harris, and Rupert Giles, discussing the details of their final battle against the invading darkness. In this fight, they'd be outnumbered, and there was no way to create an impressive army. There were no more Potential slayers, no more witches, no more warriors to call upon and face the onslaught. This would be the last stand, and in the end, something would be wiped from the face of the earth.

"Before it's over, I'll find you."

"Am I still your girl?" Listening to her voice, fragile again, a young woman on the precipice of life, looking down over the great chasm of evil that she would spend the formative years of her life trying to overcome, he broke easily into a sad smile.

"Always."

_"…Because it probably is."_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Cement walls loomed, stretching eight feet from the cracked and misshapen floor, stained with the constant ooze of condensation, the splatter of mucus and blood. The ceiling, capped atop the walls haphazardly, was equally dreary, oozing, bleeding. One would not know which way was up but for the simple pipeline that wandered lazily down the corridor. At her seams, the pipe dripped and coagulated, as though an artery through the leg of the structure. Doors interrupted the right hand wall at intervals of twenty-five feet. In the crevice between door and frame, light occasionally seeped into the pitch humid hall. Shadows stalked back and forth across the stretching beams, flickering and blotting the source. Each door had a shining brass handle, but no bolt, no lock to keep the inhabitants in or the intruders out.

To call the behemoth into being was to imagine a vast army of writhing serpents, coiled and twisted at the base of starving tree. Looking down upon them, from the decaying branches stretching wide overhead, one could see the repulsive order of such a sight, the logic in her turning, bending out to the far corners of a world cut off from all others. She resembled an earthly prison, complicated in her utter simplicity. Through the usage of sturdy walls and locking gates, she enclosed all that made Earth a splendid but treacherous place.

"Huh. They actually pulled it off." Faith shrugged as she leaned against the frame of Spike's door, crossing her arms over her chest once again. The scar she'd received, marring her face, giving her the distinct look of malice she'd managed to hide for years, had begun to heal. Drops of blood had hardened to blackened bubbles, and the skin had tightened, giving her pouting lips a gnarled scowl.

"Pulled what off?" Spike growled as he wiped his face with the back of his forearm. Dragging the blood from his nose and mouth, he managed to pull away the unholy yellow eyes and jagged demon face that characterized him as a vampire.

"The labyrinth," Buffy replied, venturing a small smile. She, too, was healing, and with the activity came a new sensation of agony. Stretching out a hand, she grasped at the wall for support, and found, instead, Angel's proffered arm.

"I'm not gettin' a recollection." Spike scowled. "What the hell is the labyrinth and why the hell are we in it?"

Angel slid a firm hand around Buffy's waist, holding the tortured Slayer upright as he spoke. His mouth, often a simple straight slit, had curled at the corners, revealing a shifty grin. Each word was slow, deliberate, as though it came to him only in the sequence of his previous thought. Deep in the recesses of his brain, held slightly out of reach, he recalled a former Watcher, perched over a telephone, streaming his fingers along the pages of an old manuscript.

"The labyrinth is its own dimension, a maze between worlds. We used it to contain all of the magick wreaking havoc in our own universe,"

"And with it, the entire world's evil." Buffy finished, glancing at the decaying corpses littering the room. The eerie green walls gave the scene a quality found only in Stanley Kubrick films.

"Like I said before; gut's tellin' me we ain't supposed to be alive down here." Faith frowned, rubbing at her face with the butt of her wrist.

"So wait-you're tellin' me we're stuck in a never-ending maze with every bloody evil thing in the world?!" Spike growled menacingly, a touch of fear tenderizing his voice. With little effort, the vampire leaped to his feet and scrambled out the door, ahead of his companions. "What the bloody hell are we doing, waiting around here? We gotta find the damn exit!"

The scuffling of Spike's shoes echoed down the hall as he ran out into the darkness, his hands stretched out in front of him, searching for a wall, a door, a clue as to his whereabouts. Without the guiding light of a single bulb, the hall was impressively, unnaturally dark.

"_Don't go that way," _whispered a voice against his ear, licking at the lobe with a cold, languid tongue. A stiff, frozen breeze drifted against his sunken cheek, raising the hairs on his cool skin, chilling him to the bone. _"You'll only find darkness that way."_

"_Follow us, Spike. We'll show you…the light."_

"Spike?" Buffy cried out into the hall. She strained, listening for an ounce of noise, some verification of his presence. Following her, Angel and Faith slid back out of the tomb from whence they'd come and shut the door softly behind them.

"C'mon Spike, we don't have time for this." Angel muttered, annoyance obvious in his tone.

"_He's lost to you, Slayer. Follow us, we'll show you…the way." _

"Did you hear that?" Buffy squeaked as the color drained from her face. Frozen fingertips slid around her neck, briefly cutting off the passage of oxygen to her lungs. She fought, choked, and yet remained silent.

"I didn't hear…" Faith scowled.

"_Will you die for her? Will you die as we have died, Faith?" _

"They're spirits! Ghosts! Don't listen to them. They'll only mislead you, trick you." Angel growled, his bright golden eyes now visible in the swallowing black corridor.

Behind them, the brass knobs of the doors began to rattle. Each door rattled as though locked, bolted from within. Behind the doors, screams and roars exuded, slipping and sliding from cracks in the frame, extending into the hallway, creatures of their own accord.

"Buffy? Faith! Answer me!" Angel yelled into the hall, stretching out his hands, splaying out to reach every possible angle. "Don't listen to them!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

Chaos. It was the only way to describe the transformation of Los Angeles, a city once ruled by man, now devastated by the forces of evil. The world around her seemed to stop, and the events of her life flashed through her brain in reverse. Every moment, every apocalypse diverted, every foe defeated, it had all led her to this moment in the alley beside a crumbling old hotel. Chunks of stucco-painted cement crumbled from the twelfth story, soared to the asphalt far below. Buffy through her small figure out of the way, launching herself into a pile of decrepit, deceased figures lying in the gutter.

Her entourage needed no encouragement, no words of wisdom. Their need to survive this war, to wage this fight, was a blessing. In the back of her mind, the Slayer wondered if any of her soldiers would escape with their lives. As soon as they'd left her side, Buffy tore the five hundred Potentials from her troubled mind, and set her sights on the task ahead. There had been no warning, no preparation for this battle. How could one train for something they had never encountered, knew nothing of? Buffy lifted the Scythe from her back and held it out in her hands, admiring the craftsmanship of the weapon. Blood red paint coated the steel battle ax, disguising its terrible ability with a precious amount of beauty. Truly, this device had been made for a woman. At its other end, sharpened so fine it could never be blunted, a Slayer's best defense had been mounted to the hilt. The stake slid through her first opponent like a knife through butter.

Between the twisting, turning heads of a hundred-thousand species' of demon, she spotted the one creature she'd sacrifice everything to protect. The Scythe took on a life of its own, cutting down each opponent, dismembering all that stood in her path. It seemed as though nothing could deter her, no wound nor puncture could stray her from the path to the man she loved. His face, transformed to the demonic appearance of a vampire, still held that handsome beauty she'd admired in her dreams.

"Angel," Buffy murmured as she lifted the Scythe again, swinging it through the swiftly darkening sky.

Thick strings of slime, mucus, and blood shot forth from her mouth as the Slayer slammed into the asphalt, broken to useless shards by the mass of foes that crunched over the smoggy city. Chunks of hot and sticky tar squirmed between the holes in her clothing, crawled into the empty, soaking crevices where blood seeped from wounds. Her breath was short, choking, wheezing. Cracked and broken ribs punctured though her lung, filling the orifice with blood, squeezing out the remaining air. Gnarled feet came down against her skull, crushing the Slayer against the weakened street. The saccharine, rusty taste of blood peppered her lips, echoed in her nostrils.

"Buffy!" His voice was distant, unreachable, regrettably far. Another breath fell from her collapsed lung, soaked into her diaphragm, useless. Another foot came perilously close to her face, giving her incentive to reach for her weapon, to slice shin from ankle and topple the creature. So she was useless-they couldn't win without her.

"Buffy!" Angel's voice, again, called out over the descending army. In response, the Slayer rolled to her feet, and trudged back into the onslaught, commanding the Scythe, turning even her limbs into powerful obstacles.

Reaching out for his open arms, Buffy looked only briefly over his shoulder, into the great growing chasm of swirling light that gaped open. This tiny thing, so small a gateway, this would change their lives forever. Instantly, her mind jumped back into the passing of time, back to a moment at the top of a tower. It had looked so much like this portal, a door to freedom.

"I love you, Buffy." Angel choked, tracing the Slayer's blood-stained face, brushing the blond hair from her eyes. "I try not to, but I can't stop. I've never stopped."

"Angel…"

His smooth face belonged in her hands, callused and bloody from the long years of battle that stretched out behind her. Cool lips swallowed her words, her mouth, her tongue, cutting off any other terms of endearment she might venture to express. What was there to say in times like these? The simplistic _I love you_ seemed irrelevant, useless, and all together unworthy.

The ball of her thumb grazed the sharp smoothness of his cheek, traced the low, shadowy brow, danced down the rough but tender jaw. In his immortal skin, she felt no lines or worry or ache, no scars or wounds to obscure his handsome face. All of his pain lay bare in his troubled, soulful brown eyes. Blood passed between their lips. Precious oxygen wafted from her esophagus, through his nostrils, almost as though a breath exhaled. Despite the cool temperature of his translucent skin, he spread over her rapturous warmth that extended to the very tips of her nerves.

"Angel," Her whisper was faint, barely there. "We're free."


	6. Chapter 6

Clutching fingers ripped anxiously at the Slayer's arm, turning her forcefully around, smashing her busted shoulder against the thick cement wall. A groan dripped through her gritted teeth, and even a few tears popped from her eyelids and sprayed the wrist of her attacker. 

"Watch it!" Faith growled, sputtering against the pain of solid contact against flimsy bones and tissue.

"Faith?" Angel asked the darkness, releasing his gruff hand from the tender bicep of the Slayer. His hand fell uselessly at his side, clenching and unclenching the fist.

"Yeah-who'd ya think?"

"Have you seen Buffy? I can't find her."

"Last time I checked, couldn't see anything. Can't even see my damn hand in front of my face. I swear-next time we make a portal like this, I'm bringing a flashlight."

"Hopefully, there won't be a next time," Buffy muttered through the choking blackness.

"Buffy!" Angel gasped, reaching out a blind fist, gently taking hold of her wrist. Her flesh was warm between his cold fingers. The tender beat of her heart drummed anxiously in her veins. Gooseflesh spread rapidly up the length of her bare arm, tributaries from his grasp.

"The Scythe," Buffy grunted abruptly, "I was carrying it when we were pulled into the portal. If we're here, the Scythe will be here too."

"Who cares about the stupid axe? I want to get the hell outta here!" Faith groaned, annoyed. A nasty grimace curled her lips and her dark eyes blazed with annoyance, but the energy of her look was wasted.

"C'mon! There's no telling what's down that hallway."

Their footsteps echoed as they tracked back down the hallway, as fast as caution could take them. Sallow light streaked the floor, flooding their path as the trio of Champions hurled back down the empty maze. Faith reached the room first, shoving her palm forcefully against the door. It banged open, slamming the opposite wall with such force that the bald light bulb swung like a pendulum over their heads, spraying the room with uneven light. Buffy and Angel fell in step behind her, gazing over either of her shoulders, jaws stiffened and muscles strained.

"This is it, isn't it?" Faith hissed as she leaned further into the sprawling doorway, her arms slung against each side of the frame.

"Yeah, I think so," Buffy answered her, though her voice was dreamy, far-away, distracted. She released a breath and a spiral cloud of vapor whispered its way through the bitter air, rising toward the ceiling.

"Get the Scythe and let's get out of here," Angel grunted as he pushed past Faith and thrust his shoulder into the room.

It seemed only minutes ago that they'd left this frozen Hell, littered with the lost souls of a hundred vampire slayers, broken and bloody. Though the walls were still painted with their deaths, splattered with chunky remains, streaked with handprints, slopping wet hair that had melted down the cement as a girl fell to her demise, the evidence was gone. There were no bodies, not a single solitary, remaining part. A shout through the room would echo hideously. No ounce of human flesh would remain to claim the shattering noise. It was as though they'd all risen from the grave, been carried off, found they had other business that needed attendance.

"Like I said before, B. We need to get the hell outta Dodge."

While Angel scrambled across the soggy concrete floor of the empty tomb, Faith's eyes turned suddenly toward the stretching, agonized door. The knob bounced lightly against the wall for a second time, still reeling from the strain she'd put against it upon their arrival. With fingers outstretched, curiosity surged from within her belly. Her hand wrapped tightly around the handle and turned. A click sounded, echoing, vibrating through her skin and coursing up her arm, like a jolt of electricity. It seemed as though she unlocked the missing bolt with no more than a twist of the knob from the outside.

"You see, it's like this," Willow smirked as she placed a small leather-bound spell book on the kitchen counter. Opposite her, Xander Harris fed another glazed donut into his gaping mouth. Beside him, Faith slid another gulp of cold beer down her throat. "Each door is actually a spell. It keeps the thing inside the room from escaping. So, say there's a bunny in the room,"

"An evil bunny," Xander added, spitting a bit of pre-munched glaze across the counter. It fell short and ended up on the corner of the book. Willow grimaced, un-amused, and flicked the spittle onto the floor.

"Right. Anyway. Say there's an evil bunny in the room. On the outside of the door, the name of the evil bunny species is written, in its' own language. It's etched into the door and consecrated with the blood of the creature. The door is locked from the inside, and can only be opened from the outside by a magical creature of another species."

"Why don't we just lock 'em all in, and then burn the place down?" Faith grunted, slamming the empty bottle against the counter for extra emphasis.

"Because it's magic," Xander groaned, as though he had all the answers. "It doesn't work like that."

"Pretty much," Willow nodded, quietly closing the small volume. "Think of it as a really twisted game of Wheel of Fortune. What Hell beastie is behind door number three?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

"Ghouls," Faith murmured, sliding her fingertip beneath the encrusted inscription on the face of the door. A shudder jumped down her spine, then raced back up again, cringing her neck and throat. 

"Did you say something?" Buffy asked, taking the metallic red weapon from Angel. The blade still seemed to ooze blood, in multiple forms. She slung the thing against her hip, the heavy axe blade facing the floor.

"Will' said something about the Labyrinth. Can't believe it took me so damn long to remember it,"

"Well-what is it? Or are you keeping it to yourself?"

"There are words on the doors. They're coated in blood. If a magical creature opens 'em, whatever's inside…gets out. But from the inside, it doesn't open."

"A magical creature?" Buffy repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Like a vampire slayer," Angel groaned, tightening his fists against his sides.

"So-the spirits before? You let them out?"

"Shit…" Faith swore under her breath.

"How many doors did you open?" Buffy panted as she led her companions back down the hall from whence they'd come.

"Two-yours and Spike's,"

"So-you didn't open your own?" Angel stopped suddenly, reaching out and yanking hard on Faith's wrist. She skidded to a stop, yanking her hand away.

"It was already open…"

"What do you mean it was already open?" Buffy growled, her voice riding on squeaky. "You said that it couldn't be opened from the inside."

"By something of the species written in the spell," Angel muttered, distaste on his tongue. "But if one of the Potentials opened the door before she died…"

"Oi, Slayer!" Spike's voice called out from the empty hall ahead. "Where the hell have you people been?"

"Researching the weird and unusual that is our lives," Buffy groaned as she resumed her pace, reaching the yawning light of another open doorway.

"Well-you best come look at this," Spike frowned from the doorway of the final open room. He frowned as he stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched up against the left side of the frame.

"Upir," Angel blinked as he stared at the text. Behind him, Buffy and Faith slid into the empty room, a wound in the wall. Pools of blood drenched the corners, as though the floor sloped and gravity dragged rivers of the thick substance to this place of perfect rest. The walls that encased the tomb were stained. Handprints were soggy, some still oozing with the livelihood of slayers past.

"If you'd known, would you have stopped it?" Spike asked quietly, his voice a breeze against Buffy's ear. She would not, could not turn to face him, to look upon his sad, guilt-worn eyes when she answered.

"No,"

"Couldn't stop it, B." Faith added tragically. Her fingers played against the cement, tracing the smudged fingerprints. "End of the world, apocalypse, worse thing we'd ever faced. We all coulda died."

"Maybe we all should have,"

"It's Russian," Angel called from the sagging door, hanging limp upon its hinges. "It's the old world word for vampire."

"Like I said before," Faith began, stomping toward the door.

"I know, I know," Buffy grumbled. "We're going."

A low rumbling moan sailed down the maze, consuming the empty space, the plague of darkness singed by sickly pale light. Buffy fell to a dead stop in her tracks, only to have a stumbling Angel rush forward into her back. The slayer jumped forward a half-step, then stopped again, listening.

"This doesn't look good for our heroes," Spike chuckled half-heartedly as he peered down the black hall, into the vacant stares of one hundred former vampire slayers.

"Zombies," Angel seethed under his breath. "I hate zombies."

"Zombies are one thing, but undead zombie vampire slayers are other thing entirely." Spike chimed in, following Angel's stare.

"I was waiting for a little action," Faith grinned, pulling her only available weapon from the pocket of her pants. The tiny pen knife gleamed in the low light of the bulb.

"If there's one useful thing I learned from Saturday Night moviefests with Will and Xander," Buffy grinned, gnashing her teeth. "It's 'aim for the head'."

Despite the lackluster gleam of the fading bulb on the reckless blade of the Scythe, the ultimate weapon of the vampire slayer sang effortlessly and beautifully through the air, tearing bone and sinew as it tore the head from the writhing body of undead vampire slayers. Beside Buffy, Faith swung the small knife, stabbing ruthlessly at the oncoming heads of their former recruits. Spike and Angel joined in the fray as well, decapitating the unfortunate passers-by that leaked through the Slayers' stronghold.

"We're not making a dent!" Buffy yelled from the front lines, shoving the axe through the air again.

"Let's go, Buffy, Faith. We need to make a run for it. Zombies are slow. They won't be able to catch up."

The floor squealed as Buffy and Faith retreated, scrambling past the empty door and into the consuming darkness beyond. The doors were closed, one after another slammed against the escape of more reckless and revenging demons. Buffy streaked out ahead of her vampire companions, holding the Scythe in front of her like a shield, prepared to defend them against another onslaught. At the back of their party, Faith threw her chin over her shoulder again and again, tossing her thick brown hair against her back, checking their position.

"They're gaining, damnit!" Faith screeched, turning gallantly toward the fray. Ahead, no one noticed the last triumphant stand of a world-wearied vampire slayer. It seemed fitting that they should avoid her in life and avoid her in death. "Alright, you bitches. Who's first?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

"Wesley, old boy, what did your strange robot Pop tell you about hiding your things?" Spike grinned as he slid into the office, shutting the door carefully behind him, the lock clicking into place. "They're priceless…" 

The former Watcher's desk was, as often was the case these days, in utter shambles. Templates lay in stacks on either end of the expansive table, while notes written in near illegible script sprawled across the table, stuck out of the waste paper basket on the floor, and littered the ground around his leather chair. A devious smile spread across his lips as Spike fell back into the seat, throwing his old boots up on the edge of the desk. His bony, pale hand stretched out for the nearest old book, bound in red leather and completely unaltered by script or reference to its inner secrets. The book clutched in his hands, he raised it to his lips and murmured over the bound pages.

"You know, I wouldn't have to sneak in if folks actually shared information with me," he muttered aloud, opening the text to reveal words spreading magically across the old pages. "You'd think they didn't trust me or some crazy thing. Can't imagine why…"

A painted black fingernail traced over the words, reading between the lines, looking for a particular idea that might radiate from the text of an old archived scroll buried deep within the bowels of Wolfram and Hart. At last, his eyes stopped their movement across the pages of text and fell upon a sentence that seemed to make perfect sense.

"Ah…here we are! Magick will be dragged into Hell!" Spike leaned further over the book, going so far as to remove his shoes from the desk in order to concentrate. "When the portal is successful, the forces of magick, both good and evil, will be drawn into the depths of the Labyrinth, an inter-dimensional Hell world. Each category of magick will be locked away within a room, which can only be opened from the outside by a magical creature of a different species. Yeah, don't care about that part, what's…oh, here we go. The center of the Labyrinth will contain the portal, the only way in or out of the Labyrinth Hell. Should any creature attempt escape from the Labyrinth, it shall be cured of its magical essence and rendered in non-magical form until its natural death. This spell will ensure that no magick will escape into the world following the Labyrinth's initial design."

Spike paused, stretching his hand out over the text, splaying his fingers across the words. His brow furrowed, creasing the scar that sliced through his eyebrow. A few strands of bleached blond hair fell over his forehead and he swept them away, distracted. The grin disappeared momentarily, as he concentrated on the writing, the old archive of an old spell.

"Any creature that should escape the Labyrinth and be rendered non-magical will thus be absolved of any and all magical quests or entertainments. Really, now, that's interesting. If Buffy passed through that portal…" Spike stopped, staring down at the book, his eyes suddenly lighting up. "If I passed through that damn portal…"

--

The Scythe seemed to scream as it rang through the air, catching a glint of moonlight across the blade before slicing through the flesh of a ragged looking vampire. Several bodies away, Spike scrambled to his feet, pushing through the army toward the Slayer, the eyes of his demonic half fading to their natural color, his pointed teeth returning to their blunt human appearance.

"Buffy!" he shouted over the din, reaching through the tumbling bodies, through the Potentials at war with Hell itself. "Buffy!"

His feet froze where they stood, seemingly melting into the hard asphalt that crackled across the boulevard. Shrapnel forced through the crowd, scraping his knees, twisting around his calves. He paid it no mind, watching the two of them, locked upon one another. Even after all that they'd been through, all that they'd done, she still loved that…that gypsy-eating, brood-loving freak. The hair on the back of his neck tingled as he thrust out his hand, yanking a sword from the belt of a whiny twelve year old slayer.

"Teach you to steal my girl, you prick!"

The ground tore away beneath them, aiding his stride toward the opening portal, swelling like a feeding beast. Resolution for all of his problems lie in that mouth of Hell and only one annoying bastard vampire stood in his way, toying with his mind, kissing his woman. Things never really changed. Oh sure, the scenery, the lights, the trips across continents and oceans, but the real problems were always the same. His rival-stealing the one thing that truly mattered and getting away with it. Well, not this time.

This time, William would have the last prize, the last reward. This time, William would be the hero.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

"I know where the exit's at! C'mon," Spike called over his shoulder as he led the way down the hall, twisting through the branches of the maze, the moan of their attackers fading as they ran.

"Why didn't you say something before?" Buffy gasped, breathing heavily as they careened down another hallway, deeper into the belly of the Labyrinth.

"I didn't know before, luv. It just came to me." Spike stopped, pressing his hand against the empty wall, a frown casting across his face. "Let's rest a minute, it's just ahead."

"We don't have time!" Buffy breathed, but the echo of her boots on the floor stopped, and she lingered, aware of Angel near her side.

"It just came to you? Like a memory?" Angel asked, scratching his head absently.

"Like I was really there, for a minute,"

"Must be an after-effect of the portal; passing through it corrupts your memories of it, for a short time at least."

"I remembered something else," Spike sighed, sliding down the wall, his leather coat scraping along the concrete. "I read up on the portal, somethin' I heard about it once, wanted to check up, see if it was true."

"Where did you…? Never-mind, just…what else did you remember?"

"Well, the Labyrinth affects magical creatures, right? Closes 'em off from the rest of the world? Well, it has an extra security device, keeps anything from escaping after its inside."

"There better be a silver lining to all this, Spike." Angel growled through the darkness.

"In order to keep magick in for good, anything that passes through the portal before it closes loses its magical essence."

"So, the zombies? The vampires?"

"They'll lose their magical whatsit, mate. Dunno what that means exactly, though." Spike paused, pressing his hand against the wall. "Could mean anything, really. That's how them magical spells work, don't they?"

Between them, silence passed for a moment, a speechless reaction to the truth about the portal and the Labyrinth itself. But it didn't last. A scream burst through the passage, spreading like a wave down the bank of turns, flowing into their ears.

"Faith!" Buffy called out, quietly at first, as though she might be in their vicinity. But knowledge spread over them instantly. She wasn't with them. She hadn't been for quite some time.

"Slayer," Spike growled, setting his jaw. "The portal is about thirty feet down this hall. It's a straight shot, no turns. Just keep running. Take Captain Forehead with you, could be trouble up ahead. When you get to the portal," he paused, reaching out, pulling her wrist into his cool hand. "Just jump through it, luv. Trust me, you'll like the other side."

"Where the hell are you going?" Buffy grunted, almost yanking her hand away but releasing her hostility.

"This time, William's gonna be the hero," he grinned, flashing his pure white teeth.

"Good luck, Spike," Angel grimaced, listening as the vampire took off back down the hall, twisting around the turns, armed with nothing but his fangs and his pride.

The hall stretched out beyond them like a mouth, gagging for them, choking for them. Together, the champions set off down the passage, their shoes casting echoes along the walls, reaching out beyond them like desperate fingers.

"Hold it, Slayer," growled an old, familiar voice, sweetened with melody, soft and distinctively devious.

"Renee," Buffy scowled, lifting the Scythe in front of her, aiming for the voice.

"You know, I always thought vampires were evil, villainous things. Then I became one, and I have to say, I'm welcoming the change."

The portal yawned behind them, casting an eerie pink light on the horde of former vampire slayers turned vampire themselves. There were at least fifty, perhaps more, stacked up in front of the exit, waiting, quiet, patient. It seemed so unlike a vampire to remain, waiting for prey. But these were slayers, and they'd been trained to kill.

"I'd blame you, Slayer. Look what you did to us. Look what you made us. But, honestly, I'm pretty happy about the whole thing. Killing you will be like icing on a cake."

"I was always an ala mode sorta girl," Buffy sneered, tossing the axe into the air, allowing gravity to yank it back down, slicing the head from the body, turning the Potential to dust.

Beside her, Angel through his fist into the crowd, tossing a few fragile young girls across the floor, toppling a few more, like pins in a bowling alley. Buffy shoved the weapon at Angel, drew back her fist, and shoved it through another girl, throwing her body fully against the horde. She fell through them like rain through the grass, cracking skulls and twisting necks, spreading dust across the floor. But still they came, from every corner of the dead end, on all sides of the portal that seemed to shrink as they approached.

"We don't have to dust all of them! Just make it to the portal!" Angel called out, thrusting either end of the Scythe through a vampire on either side of him.

"I'm not going through it without you!" Buffy retorted, her voice almost a scream about the chaotic din. "I'm not leaving you again!"

"I'm right behind you," Angel whispered against her ear, passing her the ancient weapon, pressing his lips against her neck. Briefly, he felt the lingering scar he'd left with her so many years ago. A shudder dipped down his spine. Thrusting his hands against her back, he pushed her firmly toward the gaping pink spiral.

"Go! Damnit, Buffy, go!"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Angel shoved her forcefully again, pushing her through a throng of slayers-turned-vampires. Buffy held the Scythe out in front of her, like a shield against the magick of the portal. It swirled, exuding energy, and in its center stood a familiar figure, slightly blurred.

"Buffy! I can't hold it much longer! If you're there, you've gotta find your way out now!" Willow screamed out over the abyss, her voice choked with tears, with frustration and fear. Her arms were stretched out in front of her, and behind her, Xander's hands covered her shoulders. "Buffy, please! Please hear me! Don't get lost in there, please!"

"I'm not leaving you," Buffy whispered, turning back toward the chaos of the fight, throwing her arm into the fray. Her hand wrapped tightly around a firm wrist, and she yanked, pulling so hard that the weight of him drew them both through the portal and onto the dry earth. "Not again."

Behind them, the portal popped shut, as though nothing more than a soap bubble that had fallen perilously to the earth. The sun spread like warm water over the cracked and broken earth, unhindered by clouds, smog, and skyscrapers that usually blocked out its rays. A scream leaped from Buffy's lips as she turned back toward Angel, throwing her arms protectively around his shoulders, scrambling helplessly against the blistering sun. Clutched in her grip, Angel blinked up at the sun, then down at the beautiful young woman wrapped around him. In his ears, the sharp echo of a heartbeat blurred his vision and a collection of tear drops slid down his face.

"Angel?" Buffy whispered, more stunned than moved. Her face twisted with fear as she lifted her hands from their grip on his arms and pressed them against his sternum. The fingers quivered, feeling the shivering beat of his ancient heart. The ground seemed to rush up toward her as Buffy's head began to spin, throwing the warm daylight into fractions, bouncing from the cracked and dry earth beneath their feet.

"Buffy!" Angel shouted, sliding his hands beneath her arms, holding her up as her knees sagged uselessly. Her head lolled against her shoulder, and her eyelids fell down around her bright green eyes, cutting her off from the world. Supporting her with one arm, Angel brushed her hair back from her face, brushing her cheek with the tips of his fingers. A soft whimper exuded from her parched lips, and though her legs continued to wobble helplessly, she found the will to speak.

"I'm okay," she murmured, grasping his arm, digging her fingernails into the warm flesh. A small smile spread across her face, though her eyes, at last opening again, revealed a sense of confusion, of loss. "I just feel so…light. Everything looks so…I can't explain it. It's like the world…changed…like I'm seeing it for the first time."

Willow smiled softly, releasing a light sigh. Her shoulders seemed to sag, though she stood tall and proud among them. The shine in her eyes had dimmed, though a smile still spread across her sweet face. Even the bounce seemed to have disappeared from her gorgeous red hair, leaving her a little more pale, a little more sad. She stepped forward a bit, though Xander moved with her, a hand on her elbow, supporting her.

"Magick is gone from the world," she began smoothly, her voice a bit timid. "Because of that, your own magical essence is gone with it. The vampire with a soul is no longer a demon, just a man. The Slayer will never again be called, and has no use for the burden of supernatural heroism she once carried on her shoulders. And the witch is no longer a child of the magicks, but a quiet observer of nature."

"What was it you said before, Buffy?" Angel smiled as he pressed a hand against Buffy's cheek, lifting her eyes to look into his own. The soft pad of his thumb moved beneath her eyelashes, swiping away streams of tears that slid down her face. Her green eyes reddened, swollen and puffy, as more tears followed the first trickle, leaving pink streaks in their wake.

His lips were like daydreams, locked away so many years ago that, at first, they were difficult to remember. Study hall, sitting in the back of the class writing "Mrs. Angel" over and over again across her folders. Drifting off to sleep while he rested on the floor alongside her bed, watchful, protective. Curled up behind the headstones, kissing in an old graveyard when they were supposed to patrol. How many years had passed since then? In his kiss, she found nothing but happy memories and promises of a future. His mouth moved against hers, tasting her tongue, swelling her lips. His hands moved around her waist, tracing the muscles in her back, in her hips. She murmured quietly, succumbing to the pleasure of his touch after so much time without it.

And when it was over, they shared a panting breath, tucked against one another in the crumbling city. Her voice was quiet, mumbling against his chest, as though she spoke directly into his beating, burning heart.

"We're free," she whispered through her tears, staring up into his eyes. "We're finally free.

--

"_What we know is this-there was a battle. A slayer, possibly with some mystical allies, faced an apocalyptic army of demons. And when it was done… They were gone. All demons, all magicks, banished from this earthly dimension. I don't know if she lived, but the demons being gone, she was the last to be called." (**Fray**)  
_


End file.
